Grey Days

Chapter Six: Late Night Cemetery Walks

I have come to the conclusion that somebody has broken into my room.

Actually, I came to that conclusion about four hours ago, when I was up at a normal hour and not trying to find a book that has instructions about tracking fingerprints at two in the morning.

I run a hand through my hair, disheveled and messy. My fingers get stuck in the knots and I wince as I try to untangle them. You would think that having hair that barely reaches your shoulder wouldn't be tangled, but here we are.

I pad across the wooden floor to my bed, where my copy of Emma is open from when I was reading it earlier. I pick it up and decide to lay in bed reading; I will get my revenge on this burglar tomorrow—or rather today—at an hour where I'm not half-dead. I read till my eyelids get droopy and flicker shut.

***

Someone's playing upstairs.

It woke me up about an hour ago. At first, I had thought that it was morning but when the clock read half past three, I groaned and sunk into my mattress. At least when I'm up at ungodly hours, I do it politely and don't run around in the dead of the night.

I throw my comforter off—I'm too hot. I want to open a window but these people live right next to the woods, meaning that I could attract mosquitos, the face behind all problems. Personally, if I was God, I would've killed the mosquitos in a mass extinction ages ago.

I sit up, since there's no point in pretending that I'll actually get some sleep. I go to my vanity and attempt to brush my hair, though it ends in wincing and teary eyes.

I give up, leaving the comb tangled in my hair. I hear a knock on my door and drag myself there, yawning.

Ingrid stands in the doorway—and even in the middle of the night, she looks beautiful. Her hair is still dead straight and shiny as it falls over her shoulder and down to her hip. Her night gown flows effortlessly, making her look almost heavenly.

I look down at my own nightgown, at the dirt marks and the tears. And don't even get me started on the mud from last night. I envy her hair, so naturally smooth and untangled. Mine is a wavy and rough mess.

"Oh, you look...breathtaking."

She smirks and I roll my eyes, pulling the brush out of my hair. Out with the brush comes a chunk of hair, and I cringe as I throw the comb across the room.

"Why are you here?"

"The twins are being little rascals," she says, looking up. "I don't like it. They're always this loud, and I've never had somebody to talk to in the middle of the night."

"You have your brother."

She looks back at me, with furrowed brows and look of disgust.

"Please, you think we get along that well," she scoffs. "Ugh, they need to shut up."

"Do you know why they're like that?" I ask. I know that children are jumpy and energetic, I was their age once. But this is ridiculous.

"I dunno," she shrugs. "I mean, they don't have a father. Maybe that could be it."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, they're like you," she continues. "Fatherless. I heard that it can affect your upbringing."

I fold my arms across my chest, taken aback by what she's saying. Does nobody in this family understand feelings or...emotions?"

"Um, sure Ingrid," I say. "Should we go upstairs?"

"No point," Ingrid says. "Even when we get Aunt Amelie to silence them, they continue this torture. Our best route of action is homicide." She eyes ms up and down, and shakes her head. "You're not a homicidal looking person."